<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Turf by apprenticenanoswarm</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23215234">Turf</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/apprenticenanoswarm/pseuds/apprenticenanoswarm'>apprenticenanoswarm</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), The Flash (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Captain Cold - Freeform, Flash Rogues, Golden Glider, M/M, Mirror Master - Freeform, Pied Piper - Freeform, Warning for implied human rights abuses, Warning for implied prisoner abuse, Weather Wizard - Freeform, rainbow raider - Freeform, warning for murder</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 10:28:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,546</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23215234</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/apprenticenanoswarm/pseuds/apprenticenanoswarm</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Slade meets the Flash’s rogues.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>96</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Turf</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>Slade didn’t often look haggard.</p>
<p>Having known him for twelve years now, Dick had seen him missing an arm and sporting third degree burns over sixty percent of his body, phone in hand and giving a client a clipped summation of his latest mission while Wintergreen yanked bullets from his body with a pair of rusty forceps. Slade didn’t do haggard.</p>
<p>Except there he sat, shadows under his eye, beard wilted, and tied to a chair. That, in itself, was odd. The number of chairs that could feasibly withstand Deathstroke’d biceps for more than five seconds was… well, maybe Luthor had developed one for Clark. But Luthor was one of Slade’s best clients. Had they fallen out?</p>
<p>“I need help,” Slade said, fixing him with a hollow gaze.</p>
<p>Shit. Hologram? Clone? Shapeshifter? Dick took an immediate step back, mentally reviewing his weapons and the distance to the warehouse door.</p>
<p>At that, Slade scowled and immediately looked more like himself. “Fuck’s sake, Grayson, it’s me.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, but I don’t believe you, though,” said Dick, hopping up onto one of the large wooden crates that lined the otherwise empty warehouse’s walls.</p>
<p>“You little asshole. How many times have you showed up on my goddamn doorstep bleeding like a stuck pig and begging for a favour? And you’re giving me shit now? The one time I reach out?”</p>
<p>Oh God – he was right.  If he <em>was</em> really Slade, Dick’s suspicion was probably doing irreparable psychological damage. Jesus. On the other hand, if he was really Slade, his psyche was already a Lego house thrown into a concrete mixer and Dick was just giving it an extra spin.</p>
<p>“If it’s really you,” said Dick, sitting down on the crate and letting his legs dangle, “explain what in the hell happened here.”</p>
<p>“No,” said Slade, mulishly. “Look, it… it…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>0</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There was a reason Slade didn’t usually take jobs in Central City. And it wasn’t the speedsters. Speedsters he could deal with. Since the Flash first popped up on his radar, he’d developed thirty-eight strategies for incapacitating him without injury and another twelve for snuffing him before he knew Slade was within a mile.</p>
<p>No, it wasn’t the speedsters. It was <em>them</em>.</p>
<p>“Lovely bit o’ hardware, this,” said the Scotsman strolling around in the gleam of his broadsword. <em>In</em> the gleam. Literally. A tiny Scottish asshole walking through the section of Slade’s sword that was shining in the sunlight. “Do ye actually use it or is it just fer show? No judgement, mind. We appreciate showmanship around these parts.”</p>
<p>“I use it,” Slade replied, because ignoring them only made it worse.</p>
<p>The Scotsman – Mirror Master, presumably, although Slade was only really familiar with the dead one’s face – whistled. “I’d like tae see that! Never had a swordsman in town before. Got a bloke with a wand, bloke with a boomerang, an’ a lass that cuts up lads wi’ her ice-skates, though. Ye’d fit right in.”</p>
<p>Slade shuddered, unable to imagine a fate worse than living in this creepy-ass town, where they’d built a taxpayer-funded shrine to their local spandex-clad demigod and a pack of reality-warping freaks spent their time stealing cheap jewellery and shitty beer.</p>
<p>
  <em>Calm the fuck down, Wilson.</em>
</p>
<p>Dialling up the sinister, he growled at his blade, “Do you have any idea who I am?”</p>
<p>“Oh, aye. The Exterminator. Wun-Eyed Wilson.”</p>
<p>“The Terminator. Do you know what I do?”</p>
<p>Mirror Master shrugged. “Assassin. Dabbled in the business meself back i’ the dae. Who y’here tae kill?”</p>
<p>“That’s between me and my target. All you and your friends need to do is stay out of my way.”</p>
<p>A new voice, low and <em>way</em> too close to his ear. “The first thing you should know is that McCulloch has no friends. He crawled out of our toilet one day and we adopted him to keep the local rodent population down.”</p>
<p>Slade whirled, mentally preparing himself to be shot or stabbed, only to find a young man with a polka-dot tunic and long, wavy orange hair holding a flute to his lips.</p>
<p>A single note, crystal clear, and suddenly Slade couldn’t move a muscle.</p>
<p>Mirror Master grinned and waved. “Piper! Wut ye doin’ this side o’ town, eh?”</p>
<p>Tucking an orange lock behind his ear, the Pied Piper said, “Looking for you, shitbreath. The captain found your stash and he’s on the warpath. Showed up at my apartment to ask if you were hiding out with me. Scared off my boyfriend in the process, so thanks for that.”</p>
<p>“Aw, shite,” Mirror Master said, hands on his hips, looking young.</p>
<p>Piper sighed. “The way I see it, your best bet is to find Glider and grovel. If she puts in a good word for you, there’s a chance Cap won’t break your arm.”</p>
<p>Suddenly brightening, Mirror Master said, “Hey! I helped ye catch the Terminator! Tha’s gotta count for somethin’, eh? This guy’s a feckin’ legend! Cap’ll be pleased as punch.”</p>
<p>“Hmm,” murmured Piper, returning his attention to Slade. “What’re you doing here, Wilson? Did someone take out a contract on the Flash? Or one of us? Please don’t try to lie; my hearing aids can tell when people are lying.”</p>
<p>Through gritted teeth, Slade said, “Not you. Not the Flash. A lawyer. Works for a major investment bank.”</p>
<p>“Oh. Okay, I don’t give a fuck then. But the Flash will. And the Captain will. I know you spend a lot of time in Gotham and the villains there are kind of a shitshow, but in Central City we’ve got this delicate equilibrium going on. You’re going to upset that.”</p>
<p>“Could just kill ‘im,” Mirror Master speculated.</p>
<p>“I’m not actually sure we could, to be honest? I read on the internet that he can heal really fast. Also, y’know, if Slade goddamn Wilson turns up dead, it’s gonna attract a lot of attention to our little corner of the world. I don’t want that and neither do you.”</p>
<p>Mirror Master hummed. “What if we toss ‘im into me mirror universe? No one’d ever find him.”</p>
<p>“Don’t be stupid,” said Piper, rolling his eyes. “Not even you know how that place works. What if he escaped and came after us?”</p>
<p>“Wouldn’t,” Slade grunted. “I’m a professional. I don’t do revenge. If no one pays me to kill you, I won’t.”</p>
<p>“Aww, ain’t that nice? He’s got <em>ethics</em> an’ all. Piper, get ‘im tae take the mask off. Wanna see ‘is face. Folks say he’s got wun eye but I dinnae how tha’ can be the case if he can super-heal. Let’s have a peek!”</p>
<p>Piper sneered at his co-worker. “You know you’re being ableist in front of a fucking Deaf guy, yeah? Classy. Real classy. Okay, shut up, here’s what we’re gonna do. We…”</p>
<p>The world went white.</p>
<p>Then red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, indigo, and black.</p>
<p>When Slade opened his eyes, his mask was off, he was lying on a couch and a dark-haired… person was leaning over him with a frown.</p>
<p>“Don’t move,” said the Rainbow Raider, nibbling the end of (the newspapers always said ‘he’ – was that right?) his pencil.</p>
<p>Slade was in a shitty mood. “Or what, nerd?”</p>
<p>Big black eyes blinked at him. “Or I won’t get your face right. You’ve got a really challenging nose.”</p>
<p>For a while, the only sound was the soft scratching of graphite on expensive paper.</p>
<p>“Got my portrait drawn in Rome by a guy outside a café once,” Slade muttered. “Didn’t look a damn thing like me.”</p>
<p>“You were a tourist. His income depended on flattering people like you,” said the Raider, peering at his chin. He had, Slade noted, a very faint Armenian accent.</p>
<p>“Guess so. You a flatterer?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Good. Where’d the other two go?”</p>
<p>“Master and Piper? Don’t know. I just dropped a colour bomb and grabbed you.”</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>The Raider cocked his head. “Dunno. I don’t really plan that far ahead. I guess it’s cool to have the scariest dude in the world owe me a favour. I think I mostly just wanted to draw you. Your face is really bizarre, you know? Most people wouldn’t notice, but to me it’s like… you’re over sixty. But you don’t have the wrinkles. And, like, there’s place where your skin wants to wrinkle, <em>tries</em> to wrinkle, but it can’t. Something keeps stamping it back down. You know sometimes botox can make people go a little uncanny valley? With you, it’s like that, except a hundred times worse. Does that make sense?”</p>
<p>Dick had said something like that once, albeit softened by an earnest insistence that he found Slade’s weirdass face intensely handsome. “So you like etching oddities?”</p>
<p>“Uhhh… I guess I like new things,” the Raider said with the shrug. “You want some coffee? It’ll be another hour before I’m done.”</p>
<p>Well, well, well. Wasn’t <em>someone</em> the cockiest resident of Cloud Cuckooland Slade had ever had the pleasure to meet? “Coffee would be great.”</p>
<p>“I’ll get it. Please try not to move.”</p>
<p>Honestly, it was kinda nice. The Raider had a tiny, quiet place with big windows overlooking a semi-attractive park and his walls were covered with stolen masterpieces. Slade passed the time by identifying each one and the museum it had last resided in.</p>
<p>“Here,” said the Raider when he was done, handing Slade his portrait.</p>
<p>Slade stared at it for a long time. “This is… may I have this? I’ll pay you.”</p>
<p>Stretching, the Raider said, “It’s yours. Can I have fifty bucks to buy a new brush?”</p>
<p>Slade gave him five hundred and left.</p>
<p>Less than two hours later, he was back on track. The target was alone in their apartment, masturbating while Slade took aim at their skull.</p>
<p>Then it started raining.</p>
<p>And snowing.</p>
<p>And peasoup fog rolled down the streets, blocking his view.</p>
<p>“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hissed, whipping his rifle round to take aim at the scrawny brunette hovering twenty feet above him, only to have it frozen solid, along with his arms and his left leg <em>and his balls sweet mother of God. </em></p>
<p>“Nice job, captain,” said the hovering dickhead, smugly folding his arms.</p>
<p>Slade followed his gaze to the adjacent rooftop, where a middle-aged man in a powder-blue costume and a woman with golden hair that floated around her head were standing.</p>
<p>“Captain Cold! What, and I can’t stress this enough, the fuck?” he shouted, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. Frostbitten balls. There was a fresh new entry in Wintergreen’s pointedly morbid diary of Slade’s most unpleasant injuries.</p>
<p>Holding up a goofy-looking purple gun – honestly, damn thing wouldn’t have looked out of place on a shelf alongside plastic frisbees and grimacing action figures – the captain shot a bridge of ice over to Slade’s rooftop and skated across it with his sister in tow. </p>
<p>“Deathstroke,” she said, tilting her chin. “Don’t think we’ve met. Hi.”</p>
<p>He nodded, all gentlemanly-like. “Golden Glider. A pleasure. Mind telling the snowman to melt this shit before my nuts drop off?”</p>
<p>With a slight wince, she said, “Yeah, sorry, he can’t do that. Just gotta wait.”</p>
<p>“Fuck.”</p>
<p>“Your own damn fault,” grunted the captain, taking off his goggles and glaring up at Slade. “Fuck’re you doing in my town, Wilson?”</p>
<p>Slade stared pointedly at the rifle.</p>
<p>“Yeah, yeah, smartass. Rhetorical question. I know <em>exactly</em> what business you’re in. We may not be as glitzy as Metropolis but we do have the internet out here, y’know.”</p>
<p>Small-town villains were so damn sensitive. “Cold, I assure you, I have only the deepest respect for the godforsaken slice of Twilight Zone you’ve been fucking with for the last twenty years.”</p>
<p>“That a crack about my age? Aren’t you a goddamn octogenarian?”</p>
<p>Lighting crackling on the tip of his wand, the Weather Wizard shouted down, “Want me to fry him?”</p>
<p>“No, Mardon. Not yet. We’re having a pleasant fucking conversation. Wilson, maybe you weren’t aware, but that guy over there working his tiny pecker to the bone, whose skull you’re planning to ventilate, is a close personal friend of the chief of police. The chief of police is a close personal friend of the Flash. You’re about to upend a bucket of liquid shit on my turf and then waltz off and leave me to deal with the consequences.”</p>
<p>The ice was melting. He could almost certainly break free. Could he beat all three of them? Yes. But he’d probably have to kill them, which would mean he’d have the Flash on his ass for the next few years. Guy had a weird attachment to his Rogues. Diplomacy, then.</p>
<p>Gesturing to the target, Slade said, “There’s a couple things you might not know about that guy. Couple things even the Flash might not know.”</p>
<p>“I don’t -…” Captain Cold started.</p>
<p>“What things?” Glider interrupted, eyes narrowing. Yikes. Something scary in those eyes.</p>
<p>“Every time I accept a new job, I do a ton of research,” said Slade, meeting her gaze, which wasn’t exactly easy. “Research on the client. Research on the target. I get to know the people I kill as intimately as anyone on Earth. And this guy? This guy’s a slimeball.”</p>
<p>She snorted. “We’re a family of slimeballs, Wilson, you’re going to have to do better.”</p>
<p>“Cheats on his wife. Cheats on both his mistresses. Republican. But the part that might interest <em>you</em> is that, prior to his current job, he was instrumental in legalising several of Iron Heights Penitentiary’s more… controversial practices.”</p>
<p>Both brother and sister controlled their expressions well. Didn’t matter. Slade was enhanced. He saw exactly how still they went.</p>
<p>But it wasn’t either one of them who spoke next.</p>
<p>“The collars?” said Weather Wizard, dropping down to stand in front of Slade. While he didn’t have much of a jaw, what was there was tight. “Was that him?”</p>
<p>Slade nodded. “Not just him. You’ve got a lot of rich enemies. But he helped.”</p>
<p>Captain Cold looked towards the target’s apartment. The fog had dispersed. “Blow his fucking brains out.”</p>
<p>And with that, Slade was two million dollars richer.</p>
<p>They bought him a beer afterwards and Glider kissed his cheek with a smile that made him feel eighteen again.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>0</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And that’s the end of my story,” said Slade.</p>
<p>Dick, who’d taken a bag of chocolate-coated peanuts out of his pouch and eaten most of them, licked his fingers. “None of that explains why you’re tied a chair in a warehouse.” </p>
<p>Slade looked positively outraged. “You… I’m doing a <em>scene</em>, you fucking clown!”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry? Did you just tell me that you’re roleplaying? Did I hear that right?”</p>
<p>“I thought it would be fun! Every time you come round wanting me to put you back together, we do a hostage scene! You’re the captive and I’m either the kidnapper or the guy who comes to rescue you. Just last month you suggested we switch it around now and then. I’ve had a shit-awful day, I just got home, and I need some goddamn <em>tenderness</em>. Is that too much to ask?  Should I fuck off back to Billy and see if he can stop laughing long enough to give me a pity-handjob?”</p>
<p>Dick had never seen him so petulant. It was hot.</p>
<p>“Think I wanna be the kidnapper,” he decided, sliding down off the crate.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>The end</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>